<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Pedestal by ritawheeler</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29786484">Pedestal</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/ritawheeler/pseuds/ritawheeler'>ritawheeler</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Cyberpunk 2077 (Video Game)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Canon Compliant, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Idiots in Love, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Pre-Relationship, Tooth-Rotting Fluff</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-16 02:55:28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,924</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29786484</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/ritawheeler/pseuds/ritawheeler</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>V's got a crush on her ripper, but isn't sure what to do about it—if anything. Fortunately, Johnny lends a helping hand...</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Female V/Viktor Vector, Johnny Silverhand &amp; V, V/Viktor Vector</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>91</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Pedestal</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/arasakas_ronin/gifts">arasakas_ronin</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>These were written as individual chapters, each named after a song that fits the mood. However, since the whole work is pretty short, I figured I'd put it all up as a one-shot. Endless thanks to swords_and_roses for putting up with these two, being a brilliant beta, and writing Johnny better than I could ever dream of. &lt;3 Hope you enjoy!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p></p>
<h1>I. Ghosts</h1><p>
  <em>PVRIS - Ghosts</em>
</p><p>V is losing it; there’s no other explanation.</p><p>Jackie has been gone for days now… weeks, probably. Time is getting hard to keep track of, even though she has so little of it left. It’s as if the world is speeding up around her while she cowers in the corner, shaking hands over her eyes. </p><p>And yet, every now and then, <em>she sees him</em>. At first she thought it was yet another Relic malfunction, some sorry side effect to the parasite living in her brain (he’s alright, really, once you get to know him). But no, Johnny claims not to to know what she’s talking about. He knows who Jackie is, has seen her memories of him countless times, but he certainly hasn’t seen the man himself around.</p><p>So is she hallucinating? She must be. How else would she keep catching glimpses of her dead best friend out the corner of her eye, hearing his voice in crowded places—always right behind her, yet gone by the time she turns around.</p><p>Maybe it’s faulty optics, she thinks one morning over cold coffee and a handful of pills for breakfast. Nothing Johnny-related; it’s just getting damn hard to keep this body going. Yeah, it must be her implants that are fucking with her head. They can read her intentions, after all; Viktor had told her as much when he’d first installed them what felt like eight lifetimes ago. And now that she’s on her final life like the world’s unluckiest cat, her subconscious is trying to provide her with some sort of comfort, in its own twisted way.</p><p>She’s not sure what she wants to do about it, precisely. As her feet carry her to the clinic on autopilot, she talks herself in and out of various solutions. She doesn’t want him <em>gone</em>, not really. It <em>was</em> unsettling at first, but now it’s almost nice, just to see a flash of familiar chrome, a playful grin, a hint of synthleather. Sometimes when she’s riding the ARCH she can swear she feels his hands over hers, large and heavy and <em>warm</em>.</p><p>She’s been wearing her helmet more often; looking both ways before she crosses the street. Jackie makes her want to <em>fight</em>, and she’s not sure she’s ready to lose that.</p><p>Still, between Nibbles, Johnny and now Jackie, the apartment is getting a bit crowded.</p><p>“Hey kid, what brings ya round?” Viktor offers by way of greeting, looking up from his screen to flash her a grin. </p><p>In the cold comfort of the clinic that never sleeps, all talk of ghosts seems silly and V is half-tempted to change gear. But she doesn’t need any new chrome and Vik’s not really one for social calls, so she steels herself and plunges in. “Think, uh— Think my optics might need checkin’. Been… seein’ things,” she mumbles, not even sure if he’d hear.</p><p>“More’n usual, you mean?” he teases gently, gesturing for her to take a seat as he gets up and stretches.</p><p>For a moment V forgets everything—the faulty optics, Jackie’s ghost; hell, even the fact she’s <em>dying</em>. Viktor’s movements are so measured and steady, so easy, that she can see the shadow of a much younger man in him, donning his boxing gloves with fierce concentration. Nothing about how he’s dressed seems practical at all, from the permanent shades to the short-sleeved shirt, neither really fit for the gloomy chill of his drafty domain. Yet in that moment she can’t find it in her to complain, studying instead the way he flexes his fingers, stretches his wrists. His shirt rides up ever so slightly as he lifts his arms over his head and then rolls his shoulders, his neck.</p><p>“Coulda just put on a jacket, y’know,” she jokes, her voice a little higher than usual, before clearing her throat. <em>Shouldn'ta stared, not polite…</em> </p><p>“Don’t think he minds,” Johnny comments from the side, and she doesn’t startle (not anymore), just pointedly ignores him. “He checks you out, too, when you’re not lookin’. Thinks he’s bein’ subtle…”</p><p>“S’not the chill, just my age showin’,” Vik replies with a self-deprecating grin as he moves to stand beside her. He goes through the motions of surgery prep, injecting his left arm and then pulling down one of the many monitors to check her vitals. There’s something almost comforting in the familiarity of it all; how many times has she been on this table in the past year? How many times has he cut her open, his touch oh-so light despite the ‘shaky ‘ganic hand’ he so likes to complain about? When he speaks again, V has to remind herself why she’s there. “So what’ve you been seein’, then? Other than your… houseguest.”</p><p>And just like that the weight of it all comes crashing on her all over again, and for a moment she worries she might retch. “Jackie,” she manages, eyes glued to the floor as she blinks away tears. <em>Not now, you know how bad he is with feelings…</em> “Just— out the corner of my eye. Thought I might be hallucinatin’, but… Well, Silverhand can’t see him, so—”</p><p>Beside her, Johnny scoffs. “‘Silverhand’, is it? Worried the doc might get jealous ‘cause I’m already in your head? Think he’s aimin’ a little lower than that anyway,” he informs her, voice dripping with contempt.</p><p>“You’re the only jealous one around here, Johnny. Now shut the fuck up,” she scolds mentally, and with a disappointed shake of his head he falls silent.</p><p>“Hm… Okay,” is all Viktor has to say to that, although if the crease between his brows is any indication, he’s not happy. “Lean back, lemme get a look at you.”</p><p>V obliges, ignoring the traitorous flutter in her stomach. <em>There are no butterflies in Night City</em>, she reminds herself, but the flock in her abdomen pays her no heed. Still, she manages to relax somewhat, Viktor’s rhythmic movements lulling her into something like a doze. He checks and double-checks a number of vitals, measures the performance of her chrome, has her follow his finger with her eyes—it’s almost as full an examination as she got after acquiring Johnny.</p><p>Whether he admits it or not, she can feel the worry radiating off Viktor. He’s never been any good at hiding his feelings, and she’s never minded—not really.</p><p>“What’s the verdict, doc?” she asks when he finally steps away, busies himself with cleaning and rearranging tools with his back to her.</p><p>“Nothin’ wrong with your optics, but I think we knew that already,” he begins, his voice flat. <em>God, what is it this time? What did you find?</em> “You should go to the ofrenda.”</p><p>It’s such a sudden change of topic that it takes V a moment to catch up. “What’s that got to do with anythin’?” she presses, resisting the urge to curl in on herself. She still hasn’t even called Mamá Welles back; facing the woman <em>in person</em> fills her with enough guilt to bring down an AV.</p><p>“You need <em>closure</em>, V,” he states over the metallic noise of medical tools being shoved around seemingly at random and with a lot more force than necessary. “Anyway, I’m no good at this sorta thing, you should talk to Misty—”</p><p>“Are you gonna be there?” V interrupts before he can excuse himself out of another serious conversation. If he wants her to face the tangled mess of regret, shame and pain that’s the ofrenda, he can take one for the team, too. That, and it’d be good to have a familiar face there; someone who has at least somewhat forgiven her for letting Jackie die.</p><p>Viktor stops fussing with the equipment and his shoulders slump; the silence stretches thin between them. “Yeah, I— I owe it to him,” he says finally, exhaling slowly.</p><p>V nods before remembering he can’t see her. “Okay. Comin’ too, then,'' she announces, and those three simple words take all the courage she has, so she slinks off the operating table and heads to the door without a backward glance.</p><p>She makes it three steps before a warm hand wraps around her forearm, and the next thing she knows she’s enveloped in a hug almost as crushing as Jackie’s. Vik’s got both arms around her, one across her shoulders and one holding her by the waist, his head resting against hers as if she was made to fit there. <em>10/10, solid hugging skills</em>, V thinks, and has to stifle the slightly hysteric laugh that rises in her throat like bile. </p><p>She can’t remember the last time anyone’s really held her like this, and as the tension drains from her body, she can feel the dam inside her crack. When the tears come, she doesn’t put up a fight, can tell it’s pointless; instead she focuses on not getting snot all over Vik’s shirt as she sobs.</p><p>He doesn’t let go for a long moment, tracing patterns across her shoulder blades with the tips of his fingers. Under a different set of circumstances it might have elicited a more… robust reaction from V, but right now it’s exactly what she needs, and the shaking passes before too long. Viktor gives her a good squeeze before letting go, taking a step back to give her some space. </p><p>She wipes at her eyes and takes a deep breath to steady herself, then clears her throat. “Thanks, guess I needed that,” she says, looking anywhere but up—until she hears the low rumble of laughter, and finds him smiling down at her.</p><p>“Cheaper’n new optics, at least.” </p><p>She nods, flashes him a grateful smile. “Guess I’ll see you at the ofrenda.”</p><p>“See ya, kid. Take care.”</p><p><br/>
</p>
<p><br/>
</p><p></p>
<h1>II. Confidence</h1><p>
  <em>X Ambassadors ft K.Flay - Confidence</em>
</p><p>Viktor gets there early; always early. That, or far too late.</p><p>Lupe is by herself at the bar, nursing a beer and staring into the middle distance. As he makes his way over, he catches himself scanning for V, but she’s not there yet. <em>Don’t bail now, kid… </em>He pushes the thought aside and takes the stool next to Lupe; the bartender is nowhere to be seen. </p><p>“Pepe is in the back, preparing,” she explains, then reaches behind the bar and hands him a beer. Only then does she turn to look at him, smiling. “You clean up well, doctor.”</p><p>“Rather not have to,” he murmurs, reminds himself not to make this about him. However much he may miss Jackie, he can’t begin to imagine what Lupe is going through. Her baby, the last of the Welles boys—gone like the rest of his brothers. </p><p>How much punishment can one human heart take? He’s seen plenty in his day, the ‘ganic variety, yet sitting there watching her sip a beer at her son’s ofrenda, he finds he can’t answer. </p><p>Lupe’s smile dips a little at the corners, and she bumps her shoulder against his. “Tonight is for the living, mijo. Jaquito would not want to see you like this.” She finishes her beer and gets up, fixing him with a peculiar look. “V is here, too. She is in the garage looking for an offering. Maybe you should say hi.”</p><p>An entirely different sort of lump forms in his throat, and he makes a noncommittal grunt. Lupe pats him on the shoulder and heads off, her back straight and head held high.</p><p>*</p><p>Between himself and some gonk reading off his phone, the ofrenda gets off to a slow start—until V steps forward. Her eyes are glistening in the gloom, yet her voice is steady as she talks about Jackie’s life, his loyalty, his ambitions. Viktor loses himself in her voice, wishes he could put his feelings into words half as well.</p><p>If not for Jackie, then at least for her… </p><p>And then with a few words from Lupe it’s over, and he drags himself back to the bar. Only now does he notice Misty lingering on the fringes, and he waves at her. She seems happy out of the limelight, though, and god knows he could use another drink, so he puts a pin in it and flags Pepe down.</p><p>He’s halfway through the second bottle when V joins him. At first he doesn’t see her so much as <em>sense</em> her, a whiff of orange and vanilla, a shock of ginger on the periphery of his vision. Unmistakable. </p><p>“Sucks to meet like this, huh?” she says as she hoists herself up onto the stool next to him, the faintest hint of humour in her voice. Pepe pours her a drink without asking, then returns to his spot on the opposite end of the bar.</p><p>“Farewells aren’t that bad once you get used to ‘em,” Viktor lies and hopes she doesn’t see right through him. Or that if she does, she takes pity.</p><p>Assuming he’s even worth that.</p><p>But when she speaks again, her voice is small, each word tugging on his heart. “Have you?” A beat; he could’ve sworn he saw her hand reach for him. “Gotten used to ‘em?”</p><p>Viktor sighs, takes a sip of his beer to buy time. “When you get to my age, friends don’t come and go. They mostly just go.” <em>Way to bring the mood down at a funeral…</em> </p><p>He can picture the way her face falls without looking—can’t bring himself to look, for that matter. Like she needed her night ruined…</p><p>As if sensing the lull in conversation, Pepe finds his way back to them, setting down two shot glasses and filling them to the brim. “For Jaquito,” he says simply.</p><p>Viktor doesn’t hesitate, takes the offered glass and raises it. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see V mirror the gesture. “Here’s to Jackie—gone off to greener pastures,” he toasts, downs the drink before his hand can start shaking.</p><p>“Jackie Welles,” V replies, her voice still subdued, but she drinks all the same. </p><p>Pepe tops up their glasses and leaves the bottle, before disappearing into the back.</p><p>“A proud son of Heywood,” Viktor muses, swirling the tequila in his glass.</p><p>“I’m gonna miss him. Already do.”</p><p>The confession takes him by surprise and he finally turns to face V for the first time that night. <em>Mistake number one</em>. She’s been crying, little streaks of mascara running down her pale cheeks, smudged where she’s tried to wipe at them. He almost reaches out to run a thumb across the freckled skin, brush a stray tear away—</p><p>Almost.</p><p>“Me too, chica,” he says instead, his voice barely above a rumble. “Ah… me too.” The second shot goes down smoother than the first, and this time it’s V who pours.</p><p>“Thanks for makin’ me come,” she says after a moment, drains her own glass and immediately starts coughing. </p><p>He can’t tell if she’s choking on her drink or her blood, but one hand’s on her back all the same, the other on the bar in front of her, effectively encasing her in his arms. “Hey, you’re all right,” he murmurs as he rubs slow circles against her back, “I’m here, it’s okay.”</p><p>The coughing subsides eventually, but the way she wipes her hand against her jeans tells him everything he needs to know.</p><p>“Come on, let’s find you somewhere more comfortable to sit,” he suggests, helping her up when she nods. </p><p>She’s swaying a little on her feet, but reaches out to snatch the bottle and shot glasses. Viktor feels a surge of warmth somewhere in the depths of his chest, hand still hovering at her back. <em>Mistake number two.</em></p><p>He leads her up the stairs and to a booth in the corner, sliding into the seat opposite. “You all right, kid? Had me worried for a moment there,” he admits, thankful for the glasses shielding his eyes from her. It already feels like she’s looking right through him sometimes; he needs what few barriers he has left if he’s to be the sensible one here.</p><p>“M’good,” she assures, waves him off even though her voice is still husky from coughing. “Nothin’ a bit of Centzon won’t fix.”</p><p>“Hair of the dog that bit you, huh?” he teases, but pours them both a drink all the same, grateful for the distraction.</p><p>“Somethin’ like it,” V replies, graces him with a smile. </p><p>Belatedly, he realises sitting across from her was a bad idea. He has a hard enough time looking away from her to begin with, never mind when there’s nothing else to focus on. </p><p>Her eyes are still rimmed with red, blue irises all the more vivid for it. The tip of her nose is pink where she must’ve been wiping it all night, lips chapped and shiny with alcohol. <em>That can’t be pleasant</em>, he thinks; wants nothing more than to kiss it better.</p><p>She looks up from her glass and meets his gaze, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear—only for it to slip back out.</p><p>Viktor wonders how long he can survive without breathing. </p><p>“Are <em>you</em> all right?” V asks softly, her eyebrows drawn together as she studies him. “Lookin’ a bit pale.” She reaches out and ghosts the backs of her fingers against his temple, as if checking for a fever.</p><p>He suppresses a shudder that has nothing to do with the temperature in the bar. “Yeah— Yeah, I’m good.” The smile comes a little more easily now it’s just the two of them, too, so he lets it.</p><p>V smiles back, her knuckles lingering against his cheekbone. She licks her lips and his eyes are drawn to the movement, when he realises she’s leaning in.</p><p>Without thinking, he pulls away. It’s an almost imperceptible movement, but she senses it, her hand dropping to the table as she leans back in her seat. He can practically see the walls going up around her brick by fucking brick; she’s not even looking at him anymore, her eyes fixed somewhere on the floor below.</p><p>“I’ll, uh— I’ll be right back,” she mutters, her voice distant, and then she’s gone.</p><p>Viktor buries his face in his hands, bites his tongue to stop himself screaming.</p><p><br/>
</p>
<p><br/>
</p><p></p>
<h1>III. Come Undone</h1><p>
  <em>My Darkest Days - Come Undone</em>
</p><p>Johnny’s waiting outside, leaning against a wall round the back with an air of nonchalance that grates on her nerves before he’s even opened his mouth. He watches her slump to the ground as he lights a cigarette, blowing nonexistent smoke in her general direction. “Would hold your hair, but you ain’t throwin’ up,” he volunteers.</p><p>“Thanks,” V mumbles, hates the way her fingers itch for a cig. “Helpful as ever.” Maybe she can bump one off someone? But that’d require going back inside, and she doesn’t think she’s got the stomach for it. Her only hope at this point is that they both suffer a mysterious bout of amnesia overnight...</p><p>In an apparent bid to be even more irritating, Johnny drums a nervous rhythm against the wall behind him. “So…” he starts, then lets it trail away.</p><p>“An’ I thought V—” <em>iktor was bad at feelings</em>, she tries to say, but his name gets caught in her throat and chokes the rest of the sentence out. She takes a deep, shuddering breath and realises she’s crying again, wipes at her cheeks before Johnny sees.</p><p>As if he needs to.</p><p>He drops down on his ass next to her, looking in every other direction but hers. “... likes you. At least he’s been checkin’ you out whenever you ain’t lookin’,” he offers, and for once doesn’t seem to be mocking her.</p><p>V shakes her head and scoffs, hating how hollow it sounds. “Don’t matter. No one’ll fuck the dead girl.” <em>God, you’re a selfish little gonk, aren’t you?</em> She’s nothing but a grenade with its safety pin between Johnny’s teeth. The last thing she should be doing is trying to get close to other people. “Prob’ly for the best, too. Ol’ bastard’s lost enough people as it is…”</p><p>“Don’t need to talk out loud,” he reminds her and gets up to hook his thumbs in the pockets of his pants.</p><p>“Why, someone gonna think I’ve lost it?” she bites out and regrets it almost immediately; he’s only trying to help. If anything, he’s actually behav—</p><p>“‘Sides, I’d fuck the dead girl. She’s hot.”</p><p><em>And there it is</em>. Always a catch with Johnny. “No thanks, I can rub one out by myself.”</p><p>For some reason this cracks him up. “Suit yourself,” he tells her, laughing.</p><p>Great. Just what her bruised ego needed—getting mocked by her brain parasite. “Can’t believe I did that,” she murmurs after a few moments have passed, covering her mouth with her hands as she stares out into the night. Maybe someone will take pity and flatline her…</p><p>“And ‘bout time,” he scoffs, somehow finding the nerve to sound irritated <em>with her</em>.</p><p>“What the <em>fuck</em> are you talkin’ about?” V can feel her blood pressure skyrocketing, and forces herself to look up at him. “<em>It didn’t work!</em>”</p><p>Johnny crosses his arms, a decidedly unimpressed slant to his features. “Just ‘cause the good doctor got cold feet at the last moment.”</p><p>A frustrated sound escapes the back of V’s throat as she fights the urge to start tearing her own hair out. “An’ what m’I supposed to do, go back in there an’ <em>try again</em>?”</p><p>“I’d slip some Sin in his drink,” he drawls, shrugging. “You’d be doin’ him a favour.”</p><p>If she could throttle him, her hands would be around his neck already. Instead she takes a deep breath, exhaling slowly through her nose until she can see something other than red. “You’ll have to excuse me if I don’t take relationship advice from the likes of you.”</p><p>“Suit yourself,” Johnny repeats, before throwing the cigarette butt over his shoulder and disappearing into the back of her head.</p><p>*</p><p>With Johnny gone, V is back to square one—if that. She briefly considers calling Takemura, then decides against; a girl can only handle so much rejection in one night. Scrolling through her contacts yields nothing else interesting, and so with a sigh that comes all the way from her toes, she heads back inside <em>El Coyote</em>. Viktor is nowhere to be found—not that she’s looking—and she’s halfway to the bar when she hears a familiar voice.</p><p>“Ey, V! Come, have another drink with us,” Gustavo calls out from the corner and waves her over. His smile is impossible to miss even from across the room.</p><p>Beside him Martha is shaking her head slowly, slender fingers drumming against the table. She’s facing the other way, her crossed legs gleaming in the low light. V catcher her eye, an unspoken question on her lips, but to her surprise the other woman only smiles. <em>Least she’s not annoyed with </em>me, she thinks and makes her way over.</p><p>“Thought you two were headin’ home,” she volunteers in case Martha’s looking for an out, but Gustavo is already pouring them a round of drinks.</p><p>“Nonsense.” He waves his hand dismissively before grabbing a glass. “Night’s still young,” he says, and V feels rather than sees something passing between him and Martha—but it’s gone before she can make sense of it.</p><p>For her part, the other woman reluctantly reaches for her drink. “All right, but we finish the bottle an’ go,” she responds in a tone that brooks no argument. Yet when her eyes drift to V, it’s to <em>wink</em> at her as she takes the shot, tequila glistening on her lips. She’s all smooth chrome and tattooed skin, light and shadow weaving together across her body in exquisite harmony that makes V’s blood sing.</p><p>The merc swallows thickly and looks away, clinking her glass against Gustavo’s before downing it in turn. Her head’s already swimming, the alcohol undoing whatever good work the night air had done just moments earlier.</p><p>When her gaze lands on the man to her right, she finds him already watching her. “That’s more like it! Always knew I liked you for a reason, <em>chica.</em>” Rich, warm laughter spills from Gustavo’s lips, and her knees nearly buckle.</p><p>V thanks her lucky stars for the low lighting in the bar, the alcohol already in her system, the high table she can not-so-casually lean against—anything that lets her pretend heat isn’t rising to her cheeks and pooling between her legs.</p><p>“You feelin’ all right, honey?” Martha’s voice is sweet and full of concern as she reaches out and covers V’s hand with her own. She pushes the shades up onto her head, her eyes a brilliant emerald that glimmers in the dim light. “Look like you been cryin’,” she adds more quietly, and to his credit, Gustavo has lost the shit-eating grin, too. </p><p>“M’good,” V manages before the words can get stuck in her throat. “Don’t wanna talk about it.” Besides, if she starts crying again, she’s not sure she’ll be able to stop. </p><p>Martha’s hand tightens around her own as she nods. “Could use a distraction, hm?” she volunteers, lips curling into a lopsided smile.</p><p>*</p><p>The familiar feeling of dread in the pit of her stomach isn’t <em>gone</em> when V wakes up, but it <em>has </em>taken on an interesting new quality. Mixed in with the usual fear and foreboding is a tinge of guilt, and it makes for a heady cocktail she decides to call <em>The Silent Regret</em>. Maybe that can be her special at the Afterlife when she snuffs it: double shot of despair, splash of poor life choices, squeeze of shame.</p><p>She mulls it over as she maps out the tangle of limbs trapping her like a spider’s web—although in all fairness, she is one satisfied fly—before carefully extricating herself from the bed. Gustavo is fast asleep, curling against Martha in the space vacated by V, but the other woman’s cat-like eyes follow her every move.</p><p>V’s heart races as she tries and fails to articulate a fraction of the thoughts tying themselves into knots on her tongue, her mouth opening and closing softly.</p><p>Martha silences her with a hand, palm facing outwards in an oddly comforting gesture. Draped in nothing but a sheet, with the morning light casting a halo over her dark hair, she reminds V of nothing so much as a portrait of the Virgin. <em>Just as well m’already goin’ to hell, or this woulda done it.</em> When she speaks, her voice is still heavy with sleep—or perhaps careful not to rouse Gustavo—but there’s an unmistakable kindness to it. “Hang in there, honey. It gets better.”</p><p>Last night’s lump still in her throat, V can only nod as she starts picking up her clothes from the floor. She throws them on quickly, hoping Martha can’t tell her hands are shaking, and shows herself out. The last thing she sees as she closes the door is Gustavo nuzzling into the other woman’s neck, her long fingers carding through his hair. There’s nothing but trust and <em>tenderness</em> in the way they move against each other, but to V, the sight is a body blow.</p><p>Loneliness settles into her bones like lead.</p><p><br/>
</p>
<p><br/>
</p><p></p>
<h1>IV. Pedestal</h1><p>
  <em>Phantogram - Pedestal</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He’d gone after her in the end. Of course he had. The day he stopped caring about V would be at his own funeral. She hadn’t gone far, just out the back and tucked against the side of the building; he’d been about to round the corner and check on her when he heard her talking to someone.</em>
</p><p>‘An’ I thought V— Don’t matter. No one’ll fuck the dead girl.’</p><p>
  <em>Well. She’d taken care of that one quickly enough.</em>
</p><p>‘Prob’ly for the best, too. Ol’ bastard’s lost enough people as it is…’</p><p>
  <em>That one had stung, he had to admit—almost as much as watching her leave the bar with the two Valentinos, their combined age just about adding up to his own. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>He couldn’t—wouldn’t—grudge her her fun. This was what she was supposed to be doing; having a few drinks, taking attractive strangers home. God, she was, what, twenty-seven? If anything, she was awfully well-behaved—especially for someone who likely wouldn’t see their next birthday… </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Besides, he had no right to be upset. She hadn’t been the one to pull back.</em>
</p><p>Prob’ly for the best, too.</p><p>*</p><p>‘S’been a while since Johnny’s been in the driver’s seat, and he flexes his shoulders for a test. Lungs hurtin’: check. Head hurtin’: check. Hungover and comin’ down hard? Fuckin’ check. Rib’s broken, too.</p><p>He gets out of bed, puts clothes on by sheer force of habit, and drags himself into the bathroom to look at the mirror.</p><p>There’s a slip of a girl lookin’ back, ginger hair tousled, face full of freckles. Somehow she’s only gotten her torso punched and not her face, and the absence of a shiner only emphasises her pallid complexion. <em>Nah, this won’t do. Hair’s perfect, though.</em></p><p>Johnny picks up her butterfly knife and adds a nice slash across her cheekbone. ‘S bleeding some, of course, but he presses his t-shirt against that ‘till it stops. </p><p>Chewing on his - <em>V’s? Jesus Christ</em> - lower lip, he heads outta the apartment and starts dragging himself to the one place his plus one won’t go.</p><p>She and Viktor’ve been avoidin’ each other like one of them’s got the plague. If there have ever been two people worse at getting into each other’s pants, Johnny hasn’t heard about them, and that’s sayin’ something.</p><p>
  <em>Well, time to fix that.</em>
</p><p>‘Least his lip’s finally bleeding by the time he makes it to the clinic. He limps down the stairs and through the door, then pops the omega blocker into his cheek and clears his throat. The doctor’s head snaps up hard enough to give him whiplash, the eyes behind the shades widening noticeably.</p><p>“Hey Vik,” Johnny croaks and swallows the pill.</p><p>He catches V before she hits the ground. ‘Course he does.</p><p><em>Let her try wigglin’ out of this one,</em> Johnny thinks, and then he stops hurting.</p><p>*</p><p>Viktor reaches her in the nick of time, and she sinks into his arms like a ragdoll. How she’s managed to drag herself here, he has no clue—he’s seen her in worse states, but only just. Scooping her up, he carries the unconscious merc across the clinic and gently lays her down on the table. If her vitals are any indication, she’s had a massive Relic malfunction at some point in the last twenty-four hours. More surprisingly, there’s traces of alcohol and a staggering variety of drugs in her system; he tries not to assume the worst, but it’s a losing battle.</p><p>“Damn it, kid,” he murmurs, heart clenched like a fist as he pushes a strand of hair out of her eyes.</p><p>*</p><p>“You look like shit.”</p><p>V’s voice is hoarse, barely more than a whisper, but in the still silence of the clinic it’s enough to wake Viktor from the nap he definitely wasn’t taking. He sits up in his chair and rubs his eyes before leaning in to examine her. The gash on her cheek is healing, but will probably leave a scar; her lips—</p><p>He swallows thickly and looks up to meet her gaze, cracks a smile. “Yeah, well, we don’t all have the luxury of sleepin’ for days at a time,” he teases; getting up to check her vitals, he’s relieved to see everything within the normal range. <em>What passes for normal where she’s concerned anyway</em>.</p><p>“That how long I’ve been out?” She’s no longer looking at him, features drawn as she worries at her bottom lip.</p><p>“No, don’t—” Without thinking, he reaches out and smooths his thumb over the tender skin, coaxing it out from between her teeth. “Stitches. You had to get stitches.”</p><p>V’s eyes widen, colour blossoming across her cheeks for the first time in days. Viktor hastily draws back, finds something to mess around with on the screen beside her; as if he can’t already recite her vitals by heart. Still, beneath the momentary fluster, there’s an overwhelming sense of relief—that she’s awake, talking, no worse for wear; that she came to him and not some back alley ripper. </p><p>That if nothing else, at least they can’t keep avoiding each other anymore.</p><p>“Listen—”</p><p>“We should—”</p><p>“Go on.”</p><p>“No, you were first.”</p><p>She cracks before he does, her whole face lighting up as she laughs. It’s a brittle sound—a shadow of her usual laughter—but still enough to break the tension. Viktor can almost feel a physical weight lift from his chest, and then it’s the easiest thing in the world to chuckle along with her, the muscles in his cheeks protesting with disuse.</p><p>“I’m sorry for tryin’ to—” V pauses, hesitating; he can practically see the gears turning in her head as her wide blue eyes search his face. <em>What are you lookin’ for?</em> “—to make things complicated. You’re one of my best chooms, an’, well… I don’t have a lot of those to spare, so I don’t wanna mess this up.”</p><p>He nods, choosing his next words carefully. Perhaps even more than the ofrenda, this feels like make or break. “You didn’t mess anythin’ up,” he begins as he pulls the chair up beside her and sits, bringing them to eye level. “If anythin’, I—”</p><p>“It’s okay.” She reaches out and places her hand on top of his where it rests on the table, a sad little smile playing on her lips. “Vik, I’m a grenade with the pin out. S’only a matter of time…”</p><p>“<em>No</em>.” There’s more force behind that one word than he’d intended, but this is not something he wants to do by halves. He takes her hand in his, running his thumb over the pad of her palm. “V, if anythin’ happened to you…” <em>If if if. Never ‘when’.</em> “It’s gonna hurt no matter what. So don’t try an’ do me any favours here.”</p><p>She looks away, her eyes shining in the dim light, but her fingers only tighten around his. “Why’d—” She exhales slowly and a tear rolls down her cheek, before she wipes it away with her free hand. “At the ofrenda, when I—”</p><p>“Why did I pull away?” he offers; watching her struggle somehow feels worse than just taking the plunge himself. “Dunno, guess I didn’t want it to happen like that.” She looks even more lost somehow, so he draws on every unspoken word, every stolen glance, every quiet prayer, and keeps going. “You were upset, you’d had a few drinks. I already worry about takin’ advantage of you without all that…”</p><p>Her face scrunches up and he can’t tell if she’s laughing or crying anymore. “So say I pulled one of those stitches”—her eyes find his again, the glimmer of tears replaced by something almost mischievous—“you’d have to kiss it better, wouldn’t you?”</p><p>“Please don’t,” he replies, but he can’t help the laughter that bubbles up past his lips as he leans in to capture hers. It’s more the promise of a kiss than the real thing, but it sends a shiver through him all the same. </p><p>For her part, V is being a bad patient, completely ignoring all his sound medical advice as she twists her fingers through his hair, holding him in place.</p><p>He rests his forehead against hers, the tips of their noses touching even as their lips part. “I should probably check how those stitches are lookin’. Might be time they came out,” he volunteers, and the laughter that greets his words is definitely the real thing.</p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>